Light Among Shadows
by oneship
Summary: AU: What if Jean-Luc and Beverly never joined Starfleet? I believe fate would have drawn them together regardless. But then again, I have 'one ship' and it's for PC. Here's my take on the meeting between a young stage director and an esteemed archaeologist. COMPLETE.


Adrenaline slicks through my veins and I grit my teeth as the sting of impending tears tugs at the corners of my eyes. I don't even know him, this man whose life is draining away beneath my fingers. His features are barely recognizable beneath the blood-red mud. He takes another shuddering breath and I wonder if it will be his last.

Dear God, I don't want to be the last person to see him alive.

My jaw aches and I stretch it without opening my mouth. The stench of blood and death is too strong as it is, and I am afraid I will choke on the dust that refuses to settle – swirling, carrying the scent of pain and caking it inside my nostrils.

He groans and I curse Elizabeth for the millionth time for choosing this vacation. I wanted to go to Risa—to let loose and have some fun—but Liz, what'd she want? She wanted to tour the six highest-rated religious sites on Vulcan. I shake my head and wonder why we're even friends at all.

The rocks and debris from the slide are sharp under my legs and I try to shift position without startling him. His hand grips mine as if sensing my stealthy movements – as if afraid I'll leave him alone to die.

Death. I can feel it hovering at the base of the cliff. Its pitch black shadow blends seamlessly with those cast by the jagged boulders, but I know it's there. I've felt its presence too many times before not to recognize it here.

The sun beats down on my back and shoulders. I'm grateful for the wide-brimmed hat, but I'd willingly trade a week's salary at the theatre for some water. I curse Elizabeth again. I wish I had the means to clean his face. No one deserves to die covered in filth.

I briefly consider wetting the corner of my blouse with my tongue and wiping the worst of the grime away, but think better of it. I can hear Nana chiding me for being a foolish girl. Don't I know saliva is full of germs?

We wouldn't want him to catch an infection moments before he dies.

I snort and roll my shoulders as more sweat trickles down my spine. He reacts to the sound, his lips fall open and his fingers twitch against mine. He's fighting. Fighting the spectre in the shadows, and I want to cry because I know he won't win.

Death always wins.

Damn, Elizabeth! Why here? Why now? Why me?

It's like I'm seven again, and I'm watching my parents die; watching the entire colony burn away beneath fever and rampant infection. I helped Nana tend them all. Death claimed three hundred and fifty-six colonists, and I was there for every single one. I wish I could remember my parents better—they'll always be deaths one hundred twelve and one hundred twenty-three—but aside from snatches of memory, they're as unrelated to me as the other three hundred and fifty-four who died.

I blink, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it's no use. I don't want to be here – here with a dying stranger.

He's not that old; thirty-five, maybe forty. He looks in good health—

I snort again. How stupid is it to think of someone dying from massive internal injuries as being in good health?

Maybe I'm cold—Tom seemed to think so—but my parents' deaths weren't the worst. No, theirs were almost bearable compared to the infants. Oh, how Nana tried to keep the babies alive!

I squeeze my eyes shut but I can't escape the memory of their tiny bodies rigid with pain, their paper-thin skin dry and burning. They hadn't even had enough strength to cry. I remember dribbling water from a cloth on their chapped lips, staring into their pain-ravaged eyes, and it reminds me how helpless I am. Even the water I'd trade my salary for is no use.

Where is Elizabeth? She should be back by now. I glance over my shoulder toward the space between the two cliffs. The same spot Elizabeth had spied from the other side as we dutifully walked along the path with the tour guide. More than two dozen people from all sorts of planets were on the tour with us, but—unlike Liz—they were content to listen to the guide and stay with the group.

"Come on," she whispered, tugging at my arm. "There's an excavation of a series of pre-Enlightenment burial sites near here."

"So?"

"So?" she replied. "I want to see the archaeologists in action."

I rolled my eyes. "Didn't you get enough of that during your last semester? It seemed like every time I had a break between rehearsals or performances, you were out on some dig."

"It's not the same. Those were all training scenarios. This is the real thing." She paused and glanced at the sky. "The light's going to go soon. They'll be almost done. We won't be disrupting them at this point."

I checked my chronometer. "Sunset's not for another four hours."

"The shadows on the cliff side will be too dark," she said, pulling on my arm. "And I think that gap there's the entrance to the site." Elizabeth gestured toward what appeared to be a crack in the face of a red-brown boulder the size of three shuttles stacked one on top of the other. "Come on."

We entered the gulley at the base of the cliffs. Elizabeth was right, there was a real excavation underway, but everyone seemed to be gone for the day; everyone except for the man on the ledge light-years above our heads.

One second he was calling down, his rich baritone informing us that this was a sensitive area and could we please return to our tour group, the next, the wall of rock shifted and he was down here with us faster than I could blink.

I wish I'd had time to blink, to close my eyes and block the sight, but my mind captured the moment in stark clarity. I don't know how long I've been holding his chilled fingers, but I know I will never forget witnessing his fall. It will haunt me forever.

I grind my teeth as he moans and tries to shift his weight.

"Hush. It's all right. You've been hurt but help is on the way," I say, trying to keep him still. As much as I don't want to see him suffer, I also don't want him to bleed out and leave me alone – alone with death and a corpse.

It's selfish, I know, but damn it, I didn't ask to be here. I should have gone and left Elizabeth with him. I'm just as fast, maybe faster, than her. But she'd insisted, "You have to stay, your grandmother's a healer." I wanted to ask her how that made a difference, but I didn't. At least she'd had enough tact not to mention medical school.

I gingerly touch his cheek, wondering if this moment would be different if I'd accepted admission instead of running as far away as possible. Away to the theatre – to where I can breathe light and life into the written word. Where death is never permanent, and those who die rise again to take their bows when the curtain drops. My fingers trace his jaw, avoiding the crimson coating his left side, and I wish we were on stage, that his death will be only for a scene, and that he'll jump up, vibrant and alive, ready to thank the audience.

I need to call Nana and tell her I forgive her. I shake my head. No, I need to book a trip back to Caldos and explain myself. I should have done it instead of coming here with Liz. I should have, should have, should have. If I'm not careful, I'm going to wind up living a life of regrets. But, at the same time, as I stare at his greying skin, I can't help but think apologizing to Nana would be preferable to this.

I know Nana meant well when she applied on my behalf, but I don't want to be a doctor. I don't want to surround myself with death and the dying. I've had enough of that for a thousand lives.

His lips part and a soft sigh crosses their smooth surface. I ache with frustration. And fear. The shadows keep creeping closer despite the late-afternoon heat, and I shiver. A hint of a breeze drifts through the still air, ruffling the thin hairs atop his head. In a few more years he won't have anything left, and I can't help but think he'll suit the look admirably.

My fist smacks against my thigh, startling us both. Why? Why does he have to die? Why must his last moments be an agonizing jumble of rocks and blood and awkward comfort from someone who doesn't even know his name?

Lines from our last production drift into my mind. Gregor, the lead, was fascinated and consumed by his mortality, eventually driving his lover and everyone around him away with his constant quoting of death-related literature. Gregor dies by his own hand, and I whisper his regret, "Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair, to be death's conquest and make worms thine heir."

The man's eyes open and I'm drawn against my will into their depths. Pain swirls among the flecks of gold and steel, but there's more: curiosity, intelligence, exhaustion, resignation, and—my heart catches in my throat—sympathy.

"Shakespeare." The words whisper like sand over rocks as he uses what breath remains to speak.

I disagree. "Gregor Mihalovich."

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips as he shakes his head. "Shakespeare recited by…" His words trail off and his chest rises sharply as his lungs struggle to provide his body with oxygen. "Tell me," he says.

I glance at the hole in the rocks, willing Liz to return. Watching over him while he was unresponsive was easier than this. I don't want to see the soul behind his eyes, to see him as an individual, a personality. I need to remember him as an anonymous body—I knew every colonist, I cannot afford to know him too—if I'm ever going to forget this moment.

He closes his eyes and I relax. I don't have to talk, to make a connection, if he's slipped beneath the sea of consciousness. Let him drift away, I pray.

He squeezes my fingers. "Please."

I'm caught. I want to run – every nerve screams my need to escape. But this man, this broken shell of a human being, has snared me with his words. Even I am not uncaring enough to ignore a dying request. I clench my jaw and shove my terror deep into my gut. My breath shudders as I cross the line between anonymous duty and compassion.

I talk. I tell him about the play, about my vision as the company's artistic director. About the feud between Salome and Beatrice every time we cast for a female lead. I tell him about my hopes for the next production, and more personally—a secret I haven't told Liz, but I can tell him because he will never have the chance to repeat it—my dreams working with the Earthsong Players, and showcasing my skills across the universe.

A thin sliver of a shadow caresses his cheek and I know death is close. I fall silent; I have run out of words. "I'm sorry," I say, the absence of sound setting my teeth on edge and pressuring me to fill it. "I'm so sorry."

He smiles. His gaze pins my heart to my spine. His mouth opens and I lean closer to catch each word as it forms. "My only regret," he says, pausing for breath between words, "will be… wandering into eternity… without ever learning… your name."

Scalding tears burn my cheeks and my throat is so tight I cannot swallow. I clutch his hand, as if I can communicate my pain, my sorrow, my desire to speak with trembling pressure.

"Beverly," I croak, forcing my vocal cords to obey. "Beverly Howard."

His shoulders slump and the tightness around his eyes lessens. A soft sigh escapes his lips and he whispers, "Thank you."

Adrenaline jolts through my limbs as I fight against reality. "No, damn you!" I swear. "Don't leave me. Not now." I don't know if I'm angry at him, at death, at Liz, or the universe in general. "I don't even know your—"

"Through here!" Elizabeth's voice reverberates around the gulley. "Hurry, please!"

I swipe my fist across my face, trying to hide my tears but succeeding only at smearing rust-coloured mud along my cheekbones.

The Vulcans are disturbing in their calm efficiency. I am not needed, therefore I am ignored. A compound in the rocks interferes with transporters and communications. They place him in a stasis chamber and carry him out of the defile. That he had enough life left in him to warrant stasis over a body bag should comfort me, but it doesn't.

I stare at the imprint of his body in the dirt. Dark patches mar the image and I wonder how much of himself he's given to this planet, gaining nothing in return.

"They brought a shuttle," Liz says. "If anyone can help him, it's the Vulcans."

I nod.

"Beverly?"

My hand is cold from the loss of contact, and I tuck my fingers under my arms.

"Beverly, let's go back to the hotel."

I cannot take my eyes from the ground. As if moving away, moving on with my life will mark the closing of his. If I never let this moment end, I can prevent the last of his life from slipping into death's embrace.

Liz tugs on my arm. "Beverly…"

I let her lead me from the gulley and into the crevice. The setting sun kisses my face as we step onto the trail on the other side—back to a place where people don't fall to their death, where my secrets are my own, where death isn't even a passing thought—and I shiver.

=/\=

I hate medical centres. The scentless odour of purified air triggers memories of vomit, fever, and herbal remedies that only slowed the virus's progress, never curing it. I follow Elizabeth to the information desk where a willowy Vulcan regards us without smiling.

I don't want to be here, but I ruined the rest of Liz's vacation by refusing to accompany her on any further sightseeing tours. This is my way of making up for my selfishness.

We'd been packing our bags in preparation for checking out early the next morning when the knock came. I arched my eyebrow when Liz stared at me with a questioning look on her face. I'd spent the past few days alone in our hotel room – I wasn't expecting visitors.

She opened the door. "May I help you?"

An older Vulcan, his hair greying around his temples, studied first Liz then me. He nodded to Liz then stepped into the room, his gaze never leaving my face. "I am Tovis. You are Beverly Howard?"

I was stunned. I didn't know him. I didn't know anyone on this planet.

I nodded.

"Dr. Picard is asking for you."

Elizabeth gasped and I darted a glance at her before returning my attention to Tovis.

"You must be mistaken. I don't know anyone named Picard."

The Vulcan's brows tightened. "You are Beverly Howard. Are you not the person who found the professor and summoned medical assistance?"

Hazel eyes.

Him.

Dr. Picard.

"He—" The blood rushed from my head and pooled in my feet. "He survived? He's alive?"

"Dr. Picard was gravely injured, but our medical staff were able to save him. He is expected to make a full recovery." I thought I detected a faint hint of pride in Tovis's tone, but dismissed it as illogical. "He expressed a desire to thank you for your efforts, and I was tasked with locating you."

"Our transport leaves tomorrow, and—"

"And, we'd love to stop by on our way to the station," Elizabeth said, cutting me off.

Tovis studied Liz then turned to regard me. He nodded. "I will inform the professor of your decision to visit."

And now here I am, trailing after Elizabeth down endless corridors as she searches for Dr. Picard's room. I keep my eyes on the back of her head, neither looking to the left or right. I do not want to know what goes on in the rooms we pass. Neither, it seems, does Liz.

Normally she's curious about her surroundings, but not today. Liz checks the room numbers as she practically bounces down the hallway. Apparently this Dr. Picard is well-known in archaeological circles and Liz is dying to tell her classmates she met him in person – not only did she meet him, but she helped save his life. I just want to forget the whole episode.

I wince. A large part of me wants to forget, but part of me wants to see him again if only to help put my nightmares to rest. I refuse to dwell on the 'fairness' of his survival; refuse to feel guilty for wanting him to be all right when the same prayers for my parents fell on deaf ears.

"I knew his voice sounded familiar," she gushed for the thousandth time. "Turn here, we've got to be close."

Liz darts down a side corridor and I increase my stride to keep up. She's a good eight inches shorter than me, but she can walk faster than most men I know. She stops in front of a door and I almost collide with her. Now that we're outside his room, she's quiet, more subdued. Nervous.

I hold my elbows even though the building is warm. Liz's hand hovers over the chime, indecision written across her face. I tell myself this would be like me meeting Tor'Ence, the producer of Earthsong Players.

"Go on," I whisper. "He's not going to bite. He wanted to meet us, remember?"

Elizabeth nods then smiles. "Thank you so much for letting me come too."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The Ferengi would have to swear off gold-pressed latinum before I'd consider coming here on my own. Liz's hand wavers and I press it into the chime. "Let's get this over with so we can meet our shuttle."

Liz smiles and shakes her head. A rich baritone—like butterscotch, it melts the butterflies in my stomach—beckons, "Come," and the door slides open. Liz nudges me forward and the fluttering in my abdomen increases as I cross the threshold.

He's sitting in a chair, a book on his lap, facing the spare garden beyond the window. My eyes are drawn to the text in his hands – so few people read the printed word anymore, and I'm curious to see what he's reading. His legs are covered by a thin medical blanket and a panel of lights blinks on the arm rest. He's staring at me with a half-apologetic smile on his lips, and what I can only describe as delight in his eyes.

"Forgive me for not standing and greeting you properly," he says, gesturing at the chair, "but I am afraid the doctors have yet to grant me permission to move about unassisted."

I nod. "You're better? I mean, the doctors say you're going to make a full recovery?"

"Yes."

I feel as though there's a universe of conversation between us. Words unspoken but somehow sent and received. Images of the time by his side, waiting for him to die, hating Liz for leaving me, hating him for needing me, hating myself for not doing more to help him pour over me and I can barely stand.

Elizabeth presses against my back. I have to move further into the room or risk being knocked over. I take a few tentative steps and his smile broadens. Warmth suffuses my cheeks and I know my small smile can't hide the blush.

I'm saved from making awkward conversation when Liz coughs behind my shoulder.

"Professor Picard?" My voice sounds breathy in my ears. "I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Elizabeth Malcolm. She's the one who summoned the medics who rescued you."

Picard's gaze travels from me to Liz then back. His eyes pin me in place and I know he is speaking only to me. "Please, call me Jean-Luc." He looks to Liz and smiles, saying, "Miss Malcolm, it is a pleasure to meet you."

Liz doesn't hang back. She rushes toward his chair and shakes his offered hand. I wonder if his fingers are warmer now that he's no longer dying. My chest twinges while Liz holds his hand. I'm not jealous. She's talking a mile a minute about her studies, his articles, her favourite ruins, and anything else that wanders into the light-speed processor we affectionately call her brain.

I'm content to hang back and study him.

Jean-Luc.

The way he said his name sent shivers down my spine. I'm not used to men affecting me so strongly so quickly. My fingers tingle as though remembering his, and I wonder what it would be like to caress his scalp now that it is no longer covered in blood.

His eyes crinkle in amusement as he chats with Liz, but while he's outwardly pleasant, his gaze keeps wandering back to me. He's older than I thought—Liz said he's in his early forties—and I shake my head at the irony. He looked younger in the gulley than he does in the hospital. Although, I chide myself, I suspect everyone looks older in here. I feel as though I've aged a decade since entering the main doors.

Liz is running out of steam, but I am impressed with the professor's attempts to participate in her rapid-fire discussion. A number of people find her clipped manner off-putting, but what they don't seem to understand is it's a sign of how passionate she feels about a subject. The professor, at least, seems to grasp that, and I find myself warming further to him.

"Thank you again, Miss Malcolm. I look forward to my next stint on Earth." His voice fills the room and I understand why he's so popular on the lecture circuit. I have no interest in dead history, but I would willingly give up an afternoon to listen to him talk. "I will be sure to include your university on my rounds. Perhaps you would be willing to introduce me to your class?"

Liz's face nearly splits in half, she's grinning so broadly. "Of course, Professor. I would be honoured."

"If you wouldn't mind," he says smiling at Liz then looking at me, "but I have been neglecting Miss Howard over there with all our discussions about the field."

Liz glances over her shoulder at me then steps back, offering me her spot beside his chair. I hug myself as I close the distance between us. The fingers of my left hand dig into my right elbow as I take his offered hand. A jolt of something—energy, chemistry, whatever—passes between us and I gasp. I can tell he feels it too when his eyes widen in surprise.

He clears his throat. "Miss Howard, I would like to thank you for saving my life," he begins, but I shake my head.

"Beverly. Please, call me Beverly." His eyes sparkle, matching the emotion in the soft smile on his lips. He smiled at Liz, but somehow this one seems different, like he's smiling only for me and my pulse jumps, threatening to burst through the thin skin at my wrists. "I didn't do anything. I wish I had. I wish I hadn't been so helpless, so useless."

His smile fades and I blush. I don't know where the words came from. I had no intention of opening myself to him, of speaking so frankly. Liz shifts from foot to foot then leans in and whispers, "I need some air. I'm going for a walk in the garden. Come find me when you're done."

I nod, never taking my eyes off Picard.

Jean-Luc.

He's still holding my hand and his thumb traces small circles over my knuckles and up toward my wrist. I force my breathing to slow. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I just wish I'd done more to earn your gratitude."

Jean-Luc smiles again and the tension in my shoulders subsides. I'm beginning to fear I could lose myself in his eyes. I look for something—anything—to distract me. I spy the book in his hand, his finger carefully marking his place, and I ask, "Words on paper? Are all archaeologists so old fashioned?"

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. I hadn't intended to mock, merely to shift the topic away from our time in the gulley. "I'm sorr—" I start to say, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.

"It's all right. I'm afraid I am a bit of an anachronism." He smiles sheepishly and my stomach plummets to my feet. "There's something about the printed page, the feel of the fibres between my fingers, the permanence of ink, the warmth of the cover…" His words trail off and I realize his feelings about books mirror my passion for the theatre.

"It's almost as though it's alive," I whisper.

He quirks an eyebrow as though my response is a surprise, and nods. "Yes. Alive. That's it precisely. When I'm sifting through pottery or examining ancient relics, I'm constantly trying to breathe life into them. I wonder who created the item and why. Why did they design it the way they did? Was there a purpose beyond the item's immediate function? How do aesthetics come into play? Did whoever create it think it was beautiful?

"I can lose myself for hours trying to imagine the person who left behind the clues."

I laugh softly. "I've never heard anyone describe archaeology like that before."

His grin matches mine and I thrill as he squeezes my fingers. "I take it you are not a fellow student of Miss Malcolm's?"

I shake my head. "No, we grew up together on the same colony. When I—" I almost said 'ran off', "When I decided to pursue a career in the theatre, I ended up in Chicago. We're here on her semester break."

Jean-Luc nodded. "So you're living on Earth now too?"

"Yes," I say. My voice is breathy again, as though there's not enough oxygen for the two of us.

"I wouldn't want to presume, but would you mind terribly if I called on you the next time I'm planetside?" A soft blush creeps up his neck and the urge to lean down and kiss him is palpable. His shift from charming gentleman to awkward school boy is so endearing I have to bite back a laugh.

"Of course," I reply. I'm about to leave it there when I realize I don't want to wait until then to see him again. "Can I assume you'll be laid up here for a while yet?"

He scowls and sighs. "Yes, I am to be held prisoner for another week before they'll consider releasing me."

"I wouldn't want to presume," I say, a smile dancing across my lips, "but would you mind terribly if I called you via subspace a few times while you're recuperating?"

Jean-Luc laughs. "My dear Beverly, you may call me anytime you wish." He pauses then adds, "I want you to know I am sincere in my gratitude. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't stayed with me."

I squeeze his hand, reluctant to release him, but our shuttle is leaving soon and I have to find Elizabeth. "I'm glad I could help," I say, biting back another comment about not really doing anything.

He doesn't let go of my hand and I don't pull away. Liz is waiting for me and I'm sure she'll have a million questions about my conversation with Jean-Luc. I don't want to leave.

He sighs and I realize I never considered how taxing our visit might be. I disentangle our fingers and say, "I should be going now."

Jean-Luc nods. "I am glad you and Miss Malcolm agreed to visit. I hope your return trip to Earth is uneventful."

I grin. "Me too."

He smiles, tilting his head to one side and turning my insides to jelly. "And I look forward to your call. I detest hospitals, but I would remain here indefinitely if it meant hearing from you on a regular basis."

"Oh no, my dear professor," I reply, "you promised me dinner on Earth. I expect a full evening's worth of entertainment, so you better regain your strength quickly."

Jean-Luc raises an eyebrow and I fight down a rising blush. I hadn't meant the double entendre, but now that it's been said, I'm blushing deeper because I know I wouldn't say no to a romantic liaison with this man.

"I can assure you, Miss Howard that my stamina will be more than a match for anything you may suggest."

"We'll see, Professor Picard. We'll see." I bend down and place a soft kiss on his temple. "I'm glad you made it."

He nods and I walk from the room happier and lighter than I've felt in a long time.


End file.
